“You can sure pack away the food.”“Oh, ‘tis nothing. Besides, I’m told that it’ll catch up with me.”“I hope not. I happen to like you ...he way you are.”“Thanks, I think you’re pretty nice yourself.”“You’re just saying that because I slept with you.”“Maybe I slept with you because I really think it.”“If you really thought I was nice,” Jenny wore upon her face what my father would have described as a shit-eating grin (though why a person eating shit would be grinning is beyond me), “you wouldn’t. "Are you feeling a little better, Samantha?" he asked standing. "Can I offer you something to drink?" He walked over the closet that held the washing machine, pulled it open, and then opened the door on the dryer as well before opening the washing machine and scooping the contents out and into the dryer in a well practiced motion. He paused and pulled her shirt out of the pile and held it up, looking at it. "Merde," he muttered. "Samantha, I am afraid this might take more work. The first pass. More

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